inquisitive and presumptuous
by scrub456
Summary: Sherlock has a date with an assassin. What could possibly go wrong? *Towel Day 2018, John is a mercenary assassin, part 3*


*** Author's Note ***

Towel Day prompt: "I am a private detective. I am paid to be inquisitive and presumptuous." ― Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

* * *

Speedy's Cafe isn't the sort of place Sherlock frequents. The pastries are decent. The coffee is not. He orders a pot of just okay tea and a plate of biscuits, and settles at one of the tiny outdoor tables.

He feels ridiculous. Why are the tables so small? Like he's sitting at a child's play table. His legs are too long. His knee bumps the still empty seat across from him. He doesn't know what to do with his elbows.

There _is_ an ideal seat at this cafe. He spotted it when he made his order. Stares at it longingly now. It's inside the cafe proper. In the corner farthest from the door, with the advantage of being able to see everyone in the cafe and most of what's happening on the street through the windows. The acoustics are ideal. The lighting is just right, the corner almost cast in shadow. And, it's occupied.

A man, mid-thirties. He allows himself the generalization because there isn't much to go on that isn't remarkably contradictory. He's intentionally concealed by an open newspaper. Sherlock knows it's intentional because he's only turned the page once. On the table in front of him is a cup of the cafe's own specialty blend, untouched, and the man's _not yet released to the public_ mobile. It vibrates every few minutes, but remains completely ignored on the table.

It's not Jack.

Sherlock hasn't seen the man's face, but he can tell by the angle of the paper, the man's posture is all wrong. It's not poor, just wrong. He's built too slight. His hands are too small. Soft. Clean. _Manicured._ Which he finds at odds with the tatty, dirty trainers (a size and a half too small) he can see under the table. And the baggy, artfully distressed and torn denims - they aren't naturally, and therefore _perfectly,_ worn like Jack's - don't hug the wearer… just… so…

He clears his throat and turns his attention to his cup of mediocre tea. The man at the back of the restaurant is there watching someone. Sherlock arrived an hour early for his… date? No. Meeting? Not really… Mutually agreed upon rendezvous… That's worse. Engagement? God, just _stop._ Pre-arranged encounter. Yes. Good. He's early for his pre-arranged encounter with Jack, but the other man was already there. And he's only turned pages twice now. He still hasn't touched his coffee. Despite the fact that he's concealing his identity, he's clearly on display. Wants to be seen.

He's not one of Mycroft's. There's a very conspicuous black car parked half a block away. Sherlock spotted it immediately. As well as the man working the news stand half a block in the other direction. With a sigh, Sherlock breaks one of the biscuits in half, but doesn't eat it.

The man inside is intriguing. Truly. He's clearly here for Sherlock, as the other patrons are all too dull or inconsequential for such concentrated focus. But Sherlock is too heavily surveilled to make a move. Besides he has other reasons for staying where he is.

From his seat he can clearly see the front door of 221b Baker Street. He's hoping to catch a glimpse of the current resident so he can know exactly how best to drive the man away. Or Mrs. Hudson, so he can woo her into evicting her tenant. She doesn't fall for the kind of sweet talk he uses to get skittish victims to open up, but she's never been able to resist his tales of danger and intrigue. He knows he can sway her with this current mystery, the perplexing case of the assassin in the tree. It's right up her street. She won't be able to turn him away.

And of course there's Jack. The infuriating, enigmatic, provocative mercenary who has been nothing but a frustration to Sherlock for the past twenty-four hours. There are few things that hold Sherlock's attention so entirely, and for such great lengths of time.

Jack is easily his latest in a short, yet thorough, list of addictions.

Verging on obsession.

And that's a problem.

Because, as alluring as he is, it doesn't negate the fact that Jack is a mercenary and assassin. A hired gun, amongst other untoward things. And Sherlock watched him murder a man.

Sherlock knows better than anyone that what a person does for a career does not necessarily define who they really are. Does not always speak to their character. Can't possibly reveal their true heart.

Jack murdered a man, true. But he _didn't_ kill Sherlock, only threatened him a bit (Sherlock's had far, far worse). Sherlock not only appreciates the gesture, he recognizes the risk Jack took. Jack knows who he is. Follows the papers. Knows he'll eventually track him down. He let him live any way.

Besides, he never actually lied to Sherlock. He simply withheld truth.

Sherlock crumbles the half biscuit he never intended to eat. Why is he here? How fucked up is he that he's concocting a mental defense of the character of an assassin?

He checks his watch, still twenty minutes, and shivers. Sitting outside is probably a mistake. But he is meeting an assassin after all, so there are plenty of witnesses and routes of escape. Besides, despite the chill, it's unseasonably warm, and sunny, for January.

He shivers again, but refuses to tighten his scarf. He won't button the top button of his coat. Nor will he pull the collar up around his neck. Sherlock went to great lengths preparing for this encounter, and Jack is damn well going to see him in this aubergine shirt. It's a weapon he wields sparingly but well, and it's always effective. Always.

"There are starving people who would love to kill you for the amount of food you let go to waste." The chair across from him scrapes loudly against the pavement as it's pulled inelegantly out from the table.

Not Jack.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock frowns as Bill pours tea into the cup he ordered for Jack.

"Because you broadcasted to the entire fucking planet where you'd be, and you're about to pay me for information." She's talking and chewing and drowning a biscuit in her overly sweetened tea all at once.

"You read my blog?"

"Oh for fuc… Now who's asking the wrong questions?" She drinks down her tea with an obnoxious slurp, drawing the attention of the other patrons. She pulls a nasty face at the man in the suit one table over. "Of course I don't read that self-indulgent twaddle, you pretentious arse." She wipes her mouth with her sleeve and starts to pour more tea. Sherlock covers her cup with his hand and narrowly misses being scalded.

"Eloquent for someone so…" Sherlock lets his tirade fade at the warning glare Bill shoots him.

"Doesn't mean I don't get updates when there's activity, does it? Someone has to keep you from getting yourself killed." Bill reaches across the table and grabs Sherlock's cup. "That brother of yours is doing a piss poor job of it. That forty year old bloke bussing tables in a suit is meant to be a joke, yeah?"

Sherlock laughs outright at that. She's sharp. Crass, but clever. He inclines his head toward the cafe. "What of the man in the back with the newspaper?" He keeps his eyes trained on her for her response.

Bill scans the room and frowns. "What man?"

A crash of dishes from the kitchen and Sherlock jumps to his feet. The newspaper is unceremoniously discarded in a heap on the table, coffee still untouched, but the man and his mobile are gone. He tosses Bill ten quid. "Stay."

"But…"

" _Stay._ " He shoves his chair back, nearly upsetting the table behind him, just as a woman with what can only be classified as a herd of pomeranians on leashes passes by. The dogs react, tangling around every possible thing, yipping and jumping as they do. Sherlock has two of the dreadful little mongrels around his left ankle, and the unfortunate man walking past has his cane knocked away by another. He stumbles, bumps into Sherlock, and drops his work bag, sending file folders sliding across the sidewalk. He's mumbling apologies, though he's done nothing wrong, and scrambling to gather his papers. The woman with the dogs is frozen in place, completely mortified.

Bill is holding one of the small dogs and laughing like a loon.

"Damn it!" Sherlock shouts as he finally untangles the last dog from his leg and dashes into the shop, through the kitchen, and out the back door. There's only one point of exit from this alleyway, and he takes it, stumbling out onto the street. Traffic is light, but there are a ridiculous amount of pedestrians milling about for the middle of the afternoon on a work day. Nearest him are a couple on a bench, completely absorbed in conversation, both men too stylishly dressed to be the man he's pursuing. There's a man screaming into his mobile, but his build is too large. A woman frowning at a row of ring boxes on display through a pawnbroker's window.

He looks left, then right, and goes left. It's unlikely the man would have gone right and risked being seen by Sherlock. He weaves quickly in and out of the crowds of pedestrians, focussing on feet and hands, and still seeing too much. The rush of information drives him, the adrenaline sweeps him along. He sees it all. Infidelity. Depression. Rage. Addiction. Love. Hate. Apathy.

The only thing he doesn't see is the man from the back of the cafe.

Caught up as he is, what stops him is the squeal of brakes and a black cab's piercing horn. He stares as the driver curses at him, frozen in the middle of the crosswalk, then checks his watch. It's twenty minutes past the time he's supposed to meet Jack. Contradictory to how he lives his entire life, Sherlock makes a decision and halts his pursuit.

He considers just getting in the cab, but decides that might be what actually kills him judging by the look on the driver's face.

Turning abruptly, Sherlock runs harder than he's ever run. He's never been more glad to know he left Bill at a scene. She's insulting and gruff, and there's a distinct possibility she and Jack may kill each other, but Sherlock trusts her to not let him leave. Of course, she's expecting him to pay her, but still. He does trust her.

Skidding around the corner, Sherlock spots the table where he'd been sitting. Everything is set back to rights, but the table is empty. He scans the patrons both in and outside the cafe. Neither Bill nor Jack are present.

"Damn it!" He turns in a tight circle, looking once again up and down the street. A shrill whistle from across the street stops him short and his heart stops in anticipation as he turns. He spots Bill sitting on some steps, _alone,_ and can't help the fact that his shoulders slump in defeat. He crosses to her with a sigh. "He's gone, then."

"Never showed," Bill shrugs. "Sorry, mate."

"Damn it." Sherlock drops down onto the step next to her.

"You catch the other guy?"

"No." Sherlock sighs, props his elbows on his knees, and buries his face in his hands. "And one of those damn dogs made a mess on my shoe."

Bill laughs at him. It's boisterous, and light, and there's no hint of the hard things she's seen all her life in it. It's contagious, and despite himself, Sherlock chuckles.

"Look, it's not all bad." She digs through her pocket and pulls out a flyer printed on medium blue card stock. "I was watching that veterans' center… You know the one."

Sherlock does know the one. He appreciates the sacrifice good men make for Queen and Country as much as the next person does (well, probably not _as_ much, but he understands the necessity). He also knows that not everyone who makes the 'noble sacrifice' does so with noble intentions. The center in question seems to attract a _type._

"You didn't have to go back there," his intent is to be delicate. Bill rolls her eyes.

"Don't fucking coddle me." She smooths out the flyer and turns it over. "I think your _friend_ is trouble, and you need to be careful."

"You don't know the half of it." He narrows his eyes at her. "Why do _you_ think so?"

"I don't know what he's got himself into, but I think someone intends to get him out of it the hard way." She hands Sherlock the paper. It's a rough sketch done in blue biro. "This bloke was there, causing a scene. He was looking for someone. Person he described sounded a lot like your mystery man. Said he was a Captain, I think. 'Course they wouldn't tell him anything."

"Did he identify himself?" Sherlock studies the sketch, a feeling of dread builds in his gut.

"No, but someone called him Colonel." She toys with a loose curl, and Sherlock notices for the first time the uncharacteristic broken nails on her right hand. He pulls her sleeve back and reveals a bruise on her wrist.

"That Colonel did this?" Sherlock growls. He'll kill the bastard. He'll hire Jack, and call Mycroft, and rally Lestrade and his squad of imbeciles, and he'll burn the city.

"I could'a taken him. He's a small bloke. Smaller than you'd expect. But he caught me sketching him. I wasn't paying attention." She ducks her head apologetically. "Arse stole my sketchbook." Chewing her lip, she shrugs and motions to the rough sketch. "Best I could do."

"You're sure this Colonel was a man?" Sherlock turns to face her fully, studying her face.

"I… Well…" She pauses. "He _was_ small. And wearing a cap so I couldn't see his hair." Bill tugs on her own hat and closes her eyes with a sigh. "Fuck. I thought the voice sounded off. _Fuck._ " She nods. "It's a woman."

Sherlock nods and stands. "She was here."

"The bloke with the newspaper."

He hums in confirmation. "Saw her at a pawnbroker's on the next street over." Sherlock folds the sketch and holds it up. "You mind?"

"I don't want it." She pulls the cap off her head and shake out her curls with a resigned sigh. "Sorry, Shezza."

"There is nothing to apologize for. Your work, as always, is outstanding." He smiles warmly at her. As ever she rolls her eyes. "What's the going rate for information of this calibre?"

Bill pauses and shoves her hands in her pockets. "It's been a shite day. Two for you, yeah? We're square."

"I insist on at least reimbursing you for the sketch pad." Reaching for his wallet, Sherlock's fingers brush against something cold. Jack's penknife. Except… What he pulls from his pocket is a bundle, roughly the size of a penknife, wrapped in a torn piece of notepaper. He fumbles and almost drops it as he pulls the paper away.

It's a flash drive. Specifically, Oberstein's flash drive. There's a hasty handwritten note scribbled on the paper.

 _ **A trade. We need to talk. I'll be in touch. -J**_

Sherlock empties all of his pockets right there on the steps. It's gone. Jack's penknife is gone. He replays backwards every step he took, back to facing down the cab. He rewinds back to stepping out of the alleyway and spotting the mysterious Colonel. Back farther to the front of the cafe.

"Fuck!" He shoves his belongings haphazardly into his pockets and hands Bill an odd wad of cash.

"What? What's the matter?"

"He was here too."

"What? _Who_?"

"Jack. Jack was here." He grabs Bill by the shoulders. "He was here and he's fucking brilliant. Better than I even realized."

"What are you on about?" She laughs at him again, but there's a hint of concern in it this time.

"Don't you see? It was him."

" _What_ are you talking about?"

"The man… With the files a- and the cane. It was him. It had to be him." Sherlock tugs at his hair. "He was out, right in plain sight, and I didn't see him. Oh, he's good. _Very_ good. I need…" He glances up and down the street.

"You've got that look." Bill shoves the money in her pocket and her hair under her hat. "You'll want to know this, and I didn't realize it was him, mind. I think you remembered him nicer than what's true, 'cause this bloke looks terrible. All worn down and you didn't mention a cane at all..."

"Yes, yes. Please, continue." Sherlock motions impatiently with his hands. He's twitchy, and the surge of energy is back. And he's so close. _So_ close. He just knows it.

"I followed him all the way to the park before I came back to wait for you. I…"

Sherlock doesn't wait for her to finish.


End file.
